Chapter 4: The Art of Withholding (Main Character’s Point of View)

I did not need to turn around to know that he was watching.

Even as I moved through the crowd, exchanging polite smiles and indulging in empty conversation, I could feel it—the weight of his stare, the silent demand laced within it.

It was almost admirable, how he clung to his self-restraint.

Most men, when denied what they wanted, either abandoned the pursuit or sought to force their will. But Caspian D'Argent was neither weak-willed nor foolish.

No.

He was patient.

He thought patience would serve him.

He thought that if he simply waited, if he endured, I would look back.

But I would not.

Not until I decided the moment was right.

Instead, I let the night continue without him. I danced with other men, accepted compliments that were too flowery to be sincere, laughed lightly at witticisms that barely held my attention.

And still—he did nothing.

He did not interrupt.

He did not storm away.

He only waited.

It was almost endearing.

Almost.

It was near the end of the evening, when the music had softened into a slower, more intimate cadence, that I finally rewarded him.

Just as I felt his presence once more—closer now, but still restrained—I turned my head, ever so slightly, and let my gaze flicker to him.

A mere second.

A glance.

A gift.

And it was enough.

Because the moment our eyes met, I saw it.

The quiet torment he had tried to suppress. The unbearable tension lurking beneath his carefully measured posture.

He was already mine.

He simply did not realize it yet.

I smiled—just the barest tilt of my lips—before turning away again.

And just like that, I left him with nothing.

Withholding, after all, was an art.

And I intended to make him suffer for it.